


Both Showing Hearts

by DoreyG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, And Lestrade is a bit tired, F/F, Genderswap, Long-Term Relationship(s), Lots of dialogue, Negotiations, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft actually places her phone down on her desk - knots her fingers carefully under her chin and leans forward <i>just a little bit</i>, "and your full name is Ginnifer Alexandrina Lestrade. If you were only known as <i>Ginny</i> your life would be significantly more complicated."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both Showing Hearts

"Ginnifer-"

"No."

Mycroft, and this is truly gratifying news here so she's just going to take a moment to savour it, is so surprised by this that she actually _glances up from her phone_. Raises one impeccably groomed eyebrow and manages to moderate her shock into polite curiosity "...I'm sorry?"

"I'm not doing it," she declares grandly, and crosses her arms tightly over her chest - a stance that has made every single junior officer she's come into contact with over the past fifteen years _cower_ , "and my name is Ginny."

A pity, really, that Mycroft is too well practiced for that sort of thing. Only remains in pretty much the same position, with eyebrow raised and expression curious "...My apologies, Lestrade, but you don't even know what I'm asking of you as of yet."

"Doesn't matter," she sniffs rebelliously, keeps her arms fairly crossed because pigs (and Sherlocks) have gone for cheery jaunts in ill-advised airplanes before, "and my _name_ is Ginny."

"It matters a little," and oh lord, oh _lord_ , Mycroft actually places her phone down on her desk - knots her fingers carefully under her chin and leans forward _just a little bit_ , "and your full name is Ginnifer Alexandrina Lestrade. If you were only known as _Ginny_ your life would be significantly more complicated."

"...Than it already is?" A pity for Mycroft, really, that _she's_ too practiced for that sort of thing - can easily tamp down on the familiar annoyance and give a bright little grin instead, "everybody calls me Ginny, even _you've_ called me Ginny before."

"Your underlings call you Inspector, Ma'am or even _sir_ if they're complete idiots or slightly panicked. My _darling_ little sister calls you Lestrade on a regular basis, because she still hasn't managed to memorize your first name. Your own mother calls you Ginnifer, and refuses to accept any alternatives..." Mycroft studies her for a second, eventually sighs and leans heavily back into her enviably cushy chair, "and you cannot count those times. My judgement was severely impaired, and you-"

"Were impairing it," she leers, before she can quite think about it, and is _amply_ rewarded by Mycroft's cheeks actually going a tiny bit pink, "come on, Mycroft, things said in bed _totally_ count as evidence. There's laws for it and everything."

"That _might_ require further research," Mycroft grunts, a touch huffily - and then shakes her head, shooting back to imperial ice with a speed that'd surprise her if she hadn't been getting used to it for at least fifteen years, possibly more, "and is besides the point, in any case. This request is an extremely important one-"

She rolls her eyes, still barely covering her lingering delight, "you've said _that_ before."

"-And _might_ affect both your national and personal security if you don't fulfill it," Mycroft tolerates it, though with a tiny twitch of her eye that'd be a full on homicidal rampage in anybody less controlled, "honestly, _Lestrade_. It's quite foolish to run such serious risks over such a trivial matter."

She considers this for a second; and makes sure to _look_ like she's considering it for a minute, tapping her lips and screwing up her forehead and everything "...Alright. I'll run them over other matters, then."

" _Ginnifer_ -"

" _Mycroft_."

"You really are intolerable at times," Mycroft snaps, and then visibly calms herself - closes her eyes and breathes in slowly and... Shows that vulnerable side that is still somehow kind of endearing, "what other matters, may I ask?"

"Professional integrity," she says instantly, and doesn't bother to bite back her grin as Mycroft _obviously_ resists the urge to roll her eyes, "unwillingness to be used as a lapdog, respect for professional boundaries, consideration of my own immediate personal safety and... A matter that's already been mentioned."

"My sister?" Mycroft asks flatly, still barely holding on to her resistance against something as _common_ as an eye roll.

"Top of the class!" She should really send Sherlock flowers one of these days, for providing such fertile common ground with everybody that she happens to meet. For now she just grins, practically _bounces_ under Mycroft's narrow scrutiny, "I already have to deal with her on an alarmingly regular basis. Why would I want to volunteer to spend more time in insanity central?"

The expression on Mycroft's face is an _interesting_ one now, and she savours it yet again. There's sisterly protectiveness there, yes, but also a whole grab bag of other things. Annoyance, for example; weariness, barely tempered amusement, full-hearted commiseration that makes her simultaneously want to laugh and kiss the woman.

(It's a Pavlovian response or something, honestly.)

It's all quickly tempered down, though. Replaced with that expression of polite directness that Mycroft always wears when she's trying to get somebody to do something, "who says that this request involves Sherlock?"

She imitates Mycroft, arching one grey eyebrow so high that she might actually be risking some sort of sprain.

"It could, potentially, be nothing to do with her," Mycroft says slowly, in that persuasive tone that she only uses when most other options have gleefully failed her, "it could, in fact, be something completely unrelated to any of your concerns. Something that you'll feel guilty for not participating in after the fact."

She keeps her eyebrow arched, still probably risking some sort of sprain.

"...Alright," and Mycroft actually openly sighs, sits further back in her chair and spreads her hands in the gesture of a woman at the end of her rope (or, at the very least, trying to appear at the end of her rope), "what exactly do I need to offer for you to accept?"

Eyebrow still arched, _definitely_ risking some sort of sprain, "that depends. What exactly are you willing to offer?"

"Anything."

Eyebrow still-

_Anything_?!

Her eyebrow, frankly, drops in time with her jaw. She can feel her eyes start to bulge, and barely manages to halt a certain stunned shaking from spreading through her limbs. It's like Mycroft has suddenly revealed that she's a wizard or something, like Mycroft has suddenly revealed that she's a wizard and done an undignified little dance "... _What_?"

"Yes," Mycroft says calmly, giving a pleased little smile.

"...Do you seriously-?"

"Yes," Mycroft repeats, the smile spreading across her face like a cat that's just been gifted with a canary bathed in cream and stuffed with catnip.

Which is justified, really, because... Mycroft has actually thrown her. For the first time in at least five years, ever since they actually started semi-officially dating as opposed to occasionally meeting up for terse conversation and mind blowing sex, Mycroft has actually properly thrown her. _Anything_? Knowing Mycroft, as she really does, that literally means anything. She could ask for a new house, her own plane, her own _island_ out in the middle of nowhere and far away from anybody with the last name of Holmes. She could- she _could_ \- she-

"Alright," could get incredibly bored and-slash-or incredibly stressed within five seconds, and so decides to limit that anything for her own sanity (and-slash-or amusement), "I want a date. A full on, proper, traditional date with wine and steak and polite conversation and _everything_."

"...Okay," Mycroft assents, a flash of puzzlement darting across her face, "I must admit, I was expecting something slightly more-"

"And then a movie," she continues, relishing the way that the puzzlement turns to barely moderated _horror_ in the blink of an eye, "a romantic comedy, I'm thinking. With stupid dialogue and a stupider plot and a love interest that'll make you want to get all the actors involved assassinated."

Mycroft closes her eyes.

"And then a _walk_ back to my flat," a species of vicious glee fills her chest, she continues continuing and tries not to actually start bouncing on her heels as she does so, "followed by a nightcap that consists only of cheap wine brought from the corner shop, followed by the most vanilla sex that _I_ can imagine."

Mycroft groans, low under her breath.

"Oh," and the sound buoys her into finishing on a high, a high so high that she's pretty sure that she'd be able to see the Eiffel Tower if she squinted, "And you have to leave your phone back at your place for all of it. Every single moment. _Especially_ those ones."

Mycroft, _Mycroft_ , actually starts to shake. Just a little, just a small twitch in her arms, but _noticeably_. Visibly, in a way that makes her mouth go a little dry with glee.

"Is that okay?" She still forces out, letting the sweetness of the words on her tongue refresh her once again, " _my_ Mycroft?"

And Mycroft-

"Fine," opens her eyes, stills the shaking of her arms and looks up at her with blasé interest - the face of a woman who wants to believe, so very desperately, that she's in control all the time, "I will agree to steak, a trashy movie, an unwanted walk, a subpar nightcap and... Sex so boring that I'll have to make an active effort not to fall asleep halfway through. Now, will _you_ agree to my request?"

"For all of that?" but she knows better, she knows _better_. She grins, so wide and happy that she practically becomes dizzy under the weight of it, "Oh yeah, for all of that I'd walk 500 miles, and then probably-"

"Excellent," Mycroft interrupts, before she can quote the whole song, and smirks that sharp little smirk that signifies the most endearing trouble that she's ever come across in all her life, "now, _my_ Ginnifer, Sherlock has-"

She can't even regret it, that's how deep she is.


End file.
